


Thedosian Dad-bods and Where to Find Them

by atheniavenesia



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Face-Fucking, Large Cock, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Game(s), Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Thom 'It's a Counterweight' Rainier, blackwall stop angsting i'm trying to suck your dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheniavenesia/pseuds/atheniavenesia
Summary: Maxwell most assuredly doesn't have a crush on Blackwall. That's  ridiculous. He just wants to have sex with him so badly he can't think about anything else. Entirely different things.
Relationships: Blackwall/Male Inquisitor, Blackwall/Male Trevelyan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 80





	Thedosian Dad-bods and Where to Find Them

Maxwell’s been thinking about Blackwall for a while. Well, he supposes he’s actually been thinking about Thom, but that’s sort of irrelevant to the grand scheme of things.

As it stands, what captures his attention about the man operates independently of his name. Maxwell is, after all, only just a man. Regardless of what he’s calling himself, Thom’s got a certain heft to him when he moves across Skyhold. It’s distracting, that’s what it is.

Maxwell is noble-born through-and-through. As a result, he’s not been so crass as to have ogled him, but it’s been a close thing. Appreciative glances can only go so far before they cross some sort of line, doubly so when the person doing the glancing is perhaps the most powerful man in Thedas.

However, he has a plan. He knows those words are the bane of Josephine’s life, but there’s a time and place for his unique brand of diplomacy. Admittedly, that’s almost exclusively when a tumble is on the line, but they all have their specialties. He’d like to see her end up in bed with a visiting Knight-Captain.

Oh, Maker, never mind that.

He shakes the idea from his head. It’s only after he does it literally that he notices he’s beginning to attract attention from his position outside the storerooms. He looks like a mabari. Maker’s balls, he’s gone native. He resolves to do something incredibly Marcher to balance it out before the day is done. Maybe make some comment about dogs where Cullen can hear him.

He walks inside, pastes his best ‘I’m-not-your-boss’ smile on his face.

“Hello, Assad,” he greets.

The Qunari in question whips around to face him and the parchment he’s using to make counts of the alcohol falls from his hand.

“Oh, Inquisitor, ser,” he greets. “How, uh, can I be of service?”

He may be sweating. Perhaps Maxwell’s ‘I’m-not-your-boss’ smile could use some work.

“Oh, I’ll be out of your hair in just a moment,” he replies. “Just here to grab something.”

“From the private stores?” he asks, already beginning to scurry from the room.

As fascinating as it is to see a Qunari scurry, Maxwell doesn’t let him get too far.

“Not exactly,” Maxwell says. “I need a bottle of that Orlesian wine we sent along to Serault last week.”

Assad goes pale. Maxwell stares because wow, that does interesting things to gray skin.

“I,” he begins. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor. Ambassador Montilyet was quite, um, adamant that was to be given only to diplomatic envoys to Orlais.”

Josephine, Maxwell thinks, you are not going to ruin this for me.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he says. “By the by, what was it you called me just now?”

Assad looks to be in physical pain. “Inquisitor?”

“Ah, that’s it,” he says with a snap. “Now, just out of curiosity, what was the name of that organization Ambassador Montilyet worked for again? Could have sworn it started with an ‘I.’”

Assad’s shoulders slump. Maxwell knows when he’s won. He only feels kind of guilty, too.

“It’s the Inquisition, Messere,” Assad says. He sighs. “I’ll have your bottle in just a moment.”

True to his word, he’s back in seconds with a bottle Maxwell distinctly remembers Blackwall getting a look at and going misty-eyed over.

“Good man,” Maxwell says. “If anybody asks, you were robbed. Nothing you could do about it, alright?”

Assad gets his paper from the ground. “There wasn’t.”

“You’ve got it already,” Maxwell says. “I’ll be seeing you, Assad. Tell your mother I said ‘hi.’”

He leaves at speed. Onto the next part of his expertly crafted plan. At any moment now, Blackwall is going to be leaving the Herald’s Rest after drinking almost exactly two flagons of the most middling ale they’ve got.

If Maxwell’s planned this right, they’ll coincidentally run into each other in the courtyard. A bit of conversation, the wine’ll come up, Maxwell will be convinced to split it with Blackwall instead of taking it to wherever he was headed with it before. It’s perfect.

* * *

Forty-five minutes of waiting later, Maxwell finds the plan may not be perfect. He studiously ignores the glances he’s getting and does his best to hide the bottle from prying eyes.

“Inquisitor,” he hears. “What a surprise.”

Oh, no. He looks up to find Josephine striding towards him.

“Well, Lady Montilyet,” he tries. “The feeling is mutual.”

“I’m sure,” she says. “You obviously have need of my skills, though. How fortuitous that I ran into you here.”

“I do?” he asks.

He tries to ignore the way his voice goes too high. Maker, but she reminds him of his mother. That explains the mortal terror she inspires.

“Of course,” she continues on. “The Marquis of Serault seems to have refused our offer of alliance.”

“They have?”

“They must have. Otherwise, and this would be ridiculous, that bottle behind your back wouldn’t be the one I sent to Serault. It would be a different one. Perhaps one you browbeat an employee into giving you. But that would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it, Inquisitor?”

“Exactly so,” Maxwell says. Inspiration strikes. “I actually just found this.”

“You… found it.”

“Yep. It was the”—he thinks for a moment—“Antivan Crows.”

“The Antivan Crows took this wine,” she repeats. “And then left it in the courtyard.”

Maxwell brandishes the bottle. “Must have remembered exactly who they were dealing with. Maybe it had something to do with that contract on your life.”

Josephine starts rubbing her temple. “A highly trained group of assassins — different assassins than those obliged to kill me, mind you — decided to follow through on a void contract by stealing wine I earmarked for diplomatic missions.”

“Aren’t you glad you got me that underworld training?” he asks. “Imagine if they’d gotten away with it.”

“Inquisitor.”

“Yes?”

“Give me the wine.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Maxwell tries very hard to avoid looking at her. The man of the hour finally approaches.

“Everything alright here?” Blackwall asks.

Maxwell groans at the air. “You’re late.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“Late?” Josephine asks. “Oh, Maxwell! This is about your crush—”

“Ser Ranier and I have pressing business. Elsewhere. Now. Thank you very much for you assistance in this troubled time, Josephine.”

Maxwell slings an arm over Blackwall’s shoulder and tries to march him away. It takes him a moment to understand he’s being moved. Now Maxwell’s thinking about the dense muscle of him again. He may have a problem.

“What was I late for?” Blackwall asks.

“A transformative experience involving pilfered wine.”

“Shame I missed out on that.”

“Guess you have to settle on a transformative experience without any wine.”

“More’s the pity.”

Maxwell’s got this. He knows how to get somebody into bed. He’s a professional. Well not a professional, exactly, but he looks like one if some of the offers he’d gotten in Val Royeaux were legitimate.

“Is everything alright?” Blackwall asks.

“Of course. I’m just reevaluating some tactics. I’m something of a genius, you see.”

"I’m sure Leliana’ll be quite surprised to hear that.”

“I’d ask for your help breaking the news to her, but the shock of you knowing how to speak might push her over the edge.”

Blackwall’s laugh is low. His stomach does a flip. He feels like a teenager again.

They cross the throne room, pass the guards, and they’re in Maxwell’s chambers. The sunset would have been perfect for this, but _some_ people can’t be bothered sticking to a schedule, so instead the backdrop is the first sprinkling of stars at night.

“Go on,” Blackwall goads. “Out with it.”

“I,” Maxwell slowly says, “have been thinking.”

“That’s always a problem.”

Maxwell’s faced down Corypheus at Haven, gone toe-to-toe with demons, argued with Josephine for fuck’s sake. This is nothing.

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Maxwell says.

Blackwall inclines his head for Maxwell to continue.

“We burn off some energy, have some fun, you know what I mean?”

The response to that is hard to read. It’s silence at first.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Blackwall finally stammers out.

“Was it a hard question?”

“Not particularly, no. I’m just unsure of why you’re asking me.”

"Does it matter?"

“I'd like to know some thought went into suggesting a tumble or two.”

Maxwell can breathe. The hard part is over. On second thought, he hopes there’s going to be more hard parts in his immediate future.

“Or three or four,” he says. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Blackwall scratches at his beard. “I hardly think I could. You know what I’ve done.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“Blackwall,” he says. “Thom. I’ve passed my judgment, said my piece. I could go over it again and tell you what I think about forgiveness and making amends if it would make you feel better. Right now, though? I don’t care. We’ll sort out the complicated parts later. The most pressing issue I'm facing is, funnily enough, pressing against the inside of my breeches. Let’s work on that.”

Blackwall’s brows shoot up to his hairline. “Not much for diplomacy, are you?”

Maxwell leans back a bit, props himself up on his elbows. “Not really. I’ve still got a silver tongue, though. Come over here and find out.”

"Did Sera put you up to saying that?" he asks.

"Hard as it is to believe, that shining example of wit was all me."

"I'd hoped not."

Maxwell decides to be a bit less flippant, at least for a moment.

"Listen, there's no hard feelings if it's not for you. It's just an offer."

Blackwall looks to be biting his lip. It's hard to tell beneath all that bushy hair.

"I'm no blushing virgin," he says. "I can't say I haven't thought about it."

"I'm only going to skip the obvious joke because it's been made too many times," Maxwell says. "But I'm hardly some swooning, young maiden myself. Don't worry about me. We'll fuck, get it out of our systems, and see how we feel in the morning."

Blackwall grins. The glint of teeth is a nice contrast against the dark hair on his face.

"It sounds so simple when you say it."

As nice a figure as Blackwall cuts in his armor, Maxwell’s never been so grateful for the simple tunic and breeches he wears around Skyhold. He pulls the tunic off with military efficiency. The lack of showmanship is a tease all its own.

"No point waiting around if we're doing this," Blackwall explains.

Maxwell lets his eyes trace the whorls of hair, the solid shape of muscle beneath. Andraste help him. When Blackwall walks towards him, Maxwell’s mouth goes dry. However, he’s only planting himself down on the armchair so he can begin working his boots off. Maxwell is entranced by the movements of his body, but Blackwall breaks him from it with a snort.

“You plan on getting out of yours?” he asks. “Don’t remember quite so much spectating happening the last time I bedded someone.”

Maxwell grouses, but he’s working himself out of his Inquisitor gear even before Blackwall’s finished talking.

“Well, things are bound to change over the years,” he says after he’s unfastened his shirt. “How many decades has it been again?”

Blackwall laughs. He seems ready to reply, but he looks up to see Maxwell’s stripped naked. Maxwell’s not a narcissist, exactly, but he can’t help but to preen under the attention. He falls backwards into bed, stretches out to let the long lines of his body show themselves to their best advantage.

“Maybe you’re right,” Maxwell ways. He brings a hand down to pump himself. “There does seem to be an awful lot of spectating.”

Blackwall stands and divests himself of the rest of his clothing. Maxwell’s so hard it hurts. Maker, Blackwall is fucking huge. His cock is as thick around as his wrist, nearly the length of his forearm. He’s not hard, not yet, but it looks to be getting there.

“Oh, fuck,” Maxwell says. “Fuck.”

“That a good thing?” he asks. “It’s not often you’re at a loss for words.”

Instead of answering, he scrabbles to his knees on the bed. He shuffles to the edge of it, pulls Blackwall into a kiss. Even lowered from his full height as he is, Maxwell’s still got to tilt Blackwall’s head up. When their lips meet, it’s just what Maxwell’s been craving.

Blackwall’s nothing like the nobles he’s kissed before. Not even like the odd knight-errant that’s found their way into his bed in the past. No, Blackwall’s got a roughness to him that’s entirely unique to him.

The dryness of his lips that turns to spit-slick, the coarse hair of his beard tickling the sensitive skin of his face. Beneath that, though, his motions are gentle. His tongue, when it finally meets Maxwell’s own, moves so softly between them that Maxwell’s almost disarmed by it.

“Good?” Blackwall asks.

Maxwell catches his breath. “Great. That all?”

Blackwall’s hands slide down Maxwell’s sides, come to rest lightly on his hips. “What kind of a man do you take me for?”

“The kind of man that’ll be taking me.”

Blackwall grins, huffs a breath of honeyed mead. “We’ll get there yet, don’t you worry.”

Maxwell lets one hand play with the hair at the back of Blackwall’s head. The other falls to his ass, squeezes the firm muscle.

“I certainly wouldn’t describe myself as worried right now.”

Blackwall pushes his hips forward at the urging of Maxwell’s kneading palm. His cock, still only half-hard, makes contact with Maxwell’s inner thigh. The heat of it is almost like a brand.

It’s a small movement of their heads before they’re kissing again. This time, the match the small movement of their heads with smaller movements of their hips. When the break the kiss, Blackwall just leans forward, rests his head on Maxwell’s shoulder so the only thing he hears is the small panting breaths he’s taking.

“Oh, Maker,” Maxwell says because he’s incapable of being quiet for even a moment. “Please, Blackwall, just like that.”

Blackwall takes a shuddering breath. “On your back. I’ll have you in my mouth before the night’s through.”

Maxwell groans. “Sure, sure, whatever you’d like.”

Despite what he’s said, though, he remains pressed against him for a moment. The incremental movements of their bodies against each other feels too incredible to move away from. It’s not just the slide of his cock against the thatch of hair on Blackwall’s lower stomach, not just the feel of Blackwall’s cock bumping his balls with each of those aborted thrusts; it’s the broad chest against his own, the rock solid arms encircling him, the brush of a beard in the crook of his neck.

“Not much for following orders, are you?” Blackwall pulls back to ask.

Maxwell gives a breathless grin. “More used to giving them, I suppose.”

Blackwall shakes his head, presses their lips together again.

“Don’t worry, lad,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

It’s dangerously close to something that decidedly isn’t ‘a tumble or two.’ It’s the second time since their clothes have come off that Maxwell’s felt wrong-footed. Blackwall either doesn’t notice or pushes on anyways. The firm hand on his thigh that keeps his legs apart when he’s pushed onto his back tells Maxwell it’s the latter.

“Alright now,” Blackwall says. “It’s been a long while since I’ve done something like this. You’ll have to forgive me if the technique’s a bit rusty.”

Instead of going straight for the cock Maxwell knows is sitting flushed against his stomach, Blackwall shifts his grip on Maxwell’s leg so he can kiss up the muscle. Maxwell’s content to wriggle in place and appreciate the solidity of him but only for a moment. Eventually, he lets his head fall back against the pillow.

“There won’t be anything to forgive if you don’t get to it already,” he says.

Blackwall laughs. It’s a full-bodied sound, almost shocking after the murmurs and grunting of the last few minutes.

“Maker’s breath, I’d forgotten what it was like to be young,” he finally says. “Have some patience. I’m indulging you.”

“I’m trying to indulge the both of us,” he says, but he subsides.

As a reward, maybe, Blackwall finally curls a fist around Maxwell’s cock, gives it a few tugs. He can’t stop the way he bucks into that calloused and warm palm. Blackwall huffs out another laugh, but he doesn’t hurry from the languid path his mouth is tracing.

Maxwell doesn’t rush him this time, not the least of his reasons being he’s got a new target for his ire. Instead of the tease of that wet and warm mouth, he’s focused on the tease of those glacially slow pumps Blackwall’s indulging him with.

“Maker, Blackwall, please,” he begs. “I’ll give you anything if you move faster.”

Blackwall stops moving entirely, brings his mouth off Maxwell’s skin at the time he squeezes painfully tight on Maxwell’s cock.

“Is that so?” he asks. “I’ve half a mind to ask for a nice duchy.”

“I’ll make you the next fucking Inquisitor,” Maxwell grits out. “Just do—”

The rest of his words are lost in a hiss of air. Blackwall’s got him halfway down his throat and is sucking like he’s trying to pull the anchor out through his dick. The time for teasing is done, it seems, and Blackwall seems intent on making up for it.

He more than compensates for his lack of practice with his enthusiasm. He follows the wet trail of his mouth his his hand, jerks off what he can’t take in. As incredible as it feels, it’s when Blackwall looks up at him with spit still coming from the sides of his mouth that he feels his balls tighten up and heat start to build in his stomach.

“Fuck, Blackwall, wait,” he tries to say.

Somehow, Blackwall manages to decipher it. He gets a devious look in his eyes doesn’t break eye-contact as he goes as far down as he can. Maxwell comes so hard that he’s momentarily convinced he’s entered the Fade. Again. His brain, though, comes back only stage by stage. He looks back down. Blackwall brings a finger to a dribble of cum that had landed in his beard.

“I can see why you’re not an archer,” he says. “You’ve got shit aim.”

Easy as anything, he pops his finger in his mouth. Maxwell reconsiders his earlier assessment; this is definitely the fade. This is a desire demon that’s going to possess the leader of the Inquisition. He sighs. Fair trade. He’s disturbed from his afterglow by the shuffling of his bed. He looks down to see Blackwall is moving to edge.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

He may be slurring. Blackwall looks over to him. Maxwell recognizes that look. Maker, but he thought they were through this.

“I should go. You’re under no obligation to return the favor.”

Maxwell sighs. He’s not working at full capacity.

“Can I talk you off this ledge later? I want to suck you off.”

Even from where Blackwall’s sitting, Maxwell can see his cock give an interested bob at the words.

“That’s a tall order,” Blackwall says.

Maxwell laughs. “Are you doubting my abilities?”

The strangeness of the moment passes. Blackwall turns back to face him.

“Well, it’s not something the average person can manage.”

“I’m far from the average person.”

"True enough."

He gets up, draws Blackwall into another kiss. This time, his hand drops to the measure of him, slides his hand up and down the full length. He may have overestimated his abilities. Well, he’s in it now. Might as well give it a good effort.

“Stand on the edge of the bed, then,” he orders. “I’ve got an idea.”

Blackwall does as he says. There’s a bit of bemusement on his face. Maxwell shifts to his back, stretches out so he’s comfortable. From this angle, Maxwell begins to have serious doubts Blackwall isn’t hiding Qunari ancestry because _Maker_ that’s big.

He grips Blackwall’s cock around the base and guides it to his mouth. This close, the flushed head peeking from beneath his foreskin is intimidatingly large, but Maxwell’s never been one to back down from a challenge. A bead of precum begins to drip and he catches it with a quick dart of his tongue. Blackwall groans at even that contact. He takes it in his mouth. It's almost too much, just on the edge of his teeth. He covers them with his lips and digs his nails into Blackwall’s thighs. Blackwall gets the message.

He thrusts.

He does it almost shyly, at first, little movements at first. He’s testing the water. Maybe he hears Maxwell’s small groans, sees the way his cock is starting to firm up again. Maybe it just feels good. Whatever the reason, the strokes lengthen. Eventually, he hits the back of Maxwell’s throat.

He hesitates again, but Maxwell grips his ass, keeps him there while he works to open his throat. Eventually, he manages it. Blackwall nearly melts. He only stays there for a moment before he’s pulling back so just the tip is brushing against Maxwell’s lips.

“Maker’s balls, but you’re good at that.”

“Told you so,” he says smugly. The effect is enhanced by the rasp of his voice, the tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Now get back to it.”

Blackwall doesn’t need further urging. He thrusts with a confident rhythm, nearly the full length of him with every one. Maxwell’s hard again, and he brings a hand down to frantically jerk himself off. He matches the pace Blackwall’s setting. With each slide down his throat, Maxwell strokes himself. He wants to be fucked so badly that he can feel himself clenching on nothing.

“I’m going to finish, lad,” Blackwall grunts out. “Going to cum down your throat, feed it to you.”

Maxwell makes a strangled moan and cums for the second time in an hour. Blackwall seat himself deep in Maxwell’s throat, his balls pressed against Maxwell’s nose. He feels them contract, feels the spasms of his cock as he unloads into him. Imaginary or not, Maxwell feels the heat of it in his stomach

Just when the need for air has starting to become pressing, Blackwall pulls back with another of his grunts. He stands for a moment, just breathing heavily. Maxwell’s too wrung out to even look at him. He feels adrift.

“Alright, love?” Blackwall asks.

Something about the question strikes him as odd, and it takes him a moment to recognize that it’s the address in it. He clears his throat.

“’Love’?” he asks.

“Indulge an old man,” Blackwall responds.

Instead of speaking further, he gathers Maxwell in his arms and moves him to the head of the bed. Maxwell sighs when his head hits the pillow. Blackwall pulls back from him. He looks from Maxwell to the door and back again. Giving an unspoken answer to the unspoken question, Maxwell reaches out to grab Blackwall’s wrist. Something in his expression softens further.

“Alright, I hear you. Make some space, though. Some of us have got some heft to us.”

Blackwall settles into the bed next to him. Maxwell pulls himself even closer, rests his head on the firmness of Blackwall’s shoulder. For once, the room is warm enough that Maxwell doesn’t have to get up and draw all his curtains closed to keep the heat from escaping. Maybe, he thinks, this could be more than even three or four tumbles. He could certainly get used to it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm here to preach the big dick Blackwall gospel. Thank you.


End file.
